Everything you need to know about running and life and any other random crap I find bouncing through my mind like a ping pong ball. And always be sure your shoes are happy.

Archive for the tag “marathonirritationitis”

You both know that’s not my style. Hubs mostly looks a bit shell shocked and walks carefully through the house. He never completely turns his back, circling around me in an arc, always maintaining some eye contact. I do not know what that is about, since I’m so Zen right now.

And – it doesn’t make me feel like punching him.

Well, actually, it does. But — I didn’t…

The Munkmeister and her faithful follower Mo decided the perfect place for a game of tag was my bed. With me in it. At 1am, and 2am, and 3am…

And – I didn’t yell cuss words at them. Much.

I do have a twitch in my knee. Like, sort of achy. A twinge. In my knee, in case you didn’t get that.

And – my nose is drippy. I could be getting a cold. I had to blow it once this morning. Not much, just a bit, but still, it’s a bit runny. It could be a cold. I felt a bit warm so I took my temperature. It’s normal, although that thermometer is kind of old so it could be losing degrees.

I went to get the new pair of shoes that I always have waiting in the closet and realized – I don’t have a newest pair of shoes. Right after I realized the pair I’m in now are completely worn past the sole on the outer edge.

And – that’s fine. It’s fine. Really just fine. It’s fine.

So I got a new pair yesterday. Guess what? They’ve changed. Now it’s version 6. I’ve done all my training in 5. I wore them all day yesterday. I hate them.

Hey – it’s OK. I found a pair of the 5’s on Amazon, they arrive today. And the expedited one-day delivery fee was $3.99. So that’s a good sign, right? Say: YES, that’s RIGHT Terri!

I don’t know why I keep burping. I think I have some indigestion. Perhaps a stomach issue. I hope I don’t get a stomach bug. My friend went to a Flags over Roller Coasters and she got a parasite – the gift that keeps on giving. I mean, there’s just no way of knowing. One minute you’re playing at an amusement park and the next minute you are on first-name basis with Sue at the CDC. Anything could happen. I grew up in Arizona. There’s a huge meteor crater there. Those Russians sure believe in the possibility of being hit with a meteor now, don’t they?

Memphis is on the New Madrid fault line. That sucker is gonna blow someday you know. At least I’m not planning to fly anywhere between now and Sunday. Anyway, Delta does Memphis so well now that there aren’t many flights left to worry over. See? That’s good!

I love this event’s race shirt. I sure hope it fits. I don’t think they allow shirt exchanges. I’m going to be so disappointed if I can’t wear my shirt after the race.

I can’t decide if I want to go to Ihop or Subway after the race. But what if I don’t finish the race? I’ll be forced to go to McD’s to shame myself. And I couldn’t wear the shirt either. Can’t wear a shirt you didn’t earn.

No, wait. That would be good then, right? Because I know the shirt is not going to fit anyway. Stupid damn shirt. I didn’t really like it that much.

I just had my stupid bagel which I’m getting pretty tired of bagels for breakfast, but I did, I had it. Stupid bagel. I think the baby is moving. I’ve named the baby Carbetta. My little carb baby. Who knew a person could burp that much? And I do not understand why a cat should get insulted by my burping. Have they smelled their litter box? And if we’re going to talk about manners I’ve seen where you lick, little girl, all huffy with your tail twitching.

I guess I need to get some work done. It’s hard to concentrate on work when you are as relaxed as I am. I’m just sitting here, all relaxed even though my race shirt sucks and I can’t wear it because it’s too bigsmall and I DNF’d the race next Sunday because of my damn shoes, so I’m not in the mood to read your whiny email about your car getting stolen with your purse in it and all your ID and you need a new member card.

Hubs and I were out of town last week. You might think I would feel completely free to leave town now the kids are grown and gone, no worries, enjoy the trip, relax, eat drink and be merry.

But, no. First, I no longer have that burning desire to desert Rome as it burns, my mother and four children waving forlornly as we back down the drive, desperately repressing the jiggling as my legs begin the Happy Dance under the dashboard. NO VOMIT! NO DIAPERS! NO CRYING AND FIGHTING AND STEPPING ON DEADLY LEGOS! I’m FREE!

I can lazily drink coffee and read the paper daily now. I don’t have to put on adult clothes to take the kids to school and work the phones in the office from 8am to noon or help in the clinic wiping snot and blood. I don’t have to camp out in a hotel to have a bathroom all to myself. I don’t have to hide the chocolates in a tampon box. I don’t have to worry about organizing soccer/cheer/homework/scouts/cupcakes for the birthday party before leaving everyone. No worries, now. Free Free Free.

Instead I spent three days prior to leaving town waking at 3 and 4am worrying about — The Damn Cats. What if they refuse to eat? What if they pee on the bed? What if they … I don’t know … jeeze, they’re CATS – how much could go wrong?? But, no…wake, roll over, worry.

Obsess much?

Meanwhile – no pressure here – every damn day hubs insists that I need to try on his wetsuit and be sure it fits. Fine, I tried it on. OK, right, it was on backward but what the hell. It’s not like it’s gender specific. If it fits backwards it should fit frontwards. No, apparently it didn’t count, backwards negates the experience so now I have to try it on … again.

Then, after I try it on again, he thinks I need to take it to the Center and swim in the damn thing. Remember the pool running incident (here)? Where all the senior water exercise class people glared at Becky and me in shock and awe? What do you think it will do to them if I show up at the pool in a f*cking wetsuit? How long will it take management to get all the exploded brain matter out of that water? And can they sue me for the damages?

Still hubs remains – daily – sincere in his insistent insistence that I must absolutely without doubt swim in water with the wetsuit. I pointed out that if I fail to do so prior to the race, and it is a wetsuit legal race, I will swim in the water to warm up and I will be wearing the wetsuit. I think that counts as swimming before the race. I mean, what if I swim in the wetsuit at the Center and I find out it doesn’t work so well? Is that going to change the temperature of the water Saturday?

Last week I ordered a tri-suit. It was in the mail when we got home. I pulled it out of the packaging. This sucker will not fit a skinny pre-pubescent 13-year-old. I don’t know why they wasted a 9×13 envelope to send it to me, it would have fit fine in a letter sized and saved some postage, which they handily charged me. Now I’ve spent $79 + tax, shipping and handling on something that weighs about four ounces and I may wear only once in my life – if I can even get it on. And hubs is happy I spent the money. If I buy a new lipstick and he sees it he asks me how much it cost. Tri-suit? Wet-suit? Bike? Helmet? Bike shoes? He’s throwing money at it like it was beads in New Orleans and he might see some boobs.

I spent one morning at the hotel swimming, then got on the spin bike and did 13 miles, then ran three. There, I’ve done the distance, so mentally I got that out of the way. What I realized is that I do not care at all about this triathlon like I have all the races I’ve trained for. I’m just as obsessive about getting everything organized, not forgetting anything, hoping I don’t bonk, but I don’t really care about doing the event. All I really care about is getting it over with.

Training for halves, fulls, 50K’s, I check weather for weeks, mentally preparing for wind/rain/floods/solar flares and meteors. I’m scared, nervous – but it’s an excited nervous fright. It can still get ugly – marathoniritationitis (with a graphic, here) is nothing to laugh at, but there’s still an excitement about the whole thing. This one: if it rains, oh well. If it’s hot, well damn. If it’s cold, well sh*t. Oh, well. If I get there, and I don’t like the weather, I might just decide not to do the event, and right now I cannot dredge up any impending regret, other than I’d be forced to register for another one and go through all this again.

Last night I dreamed I had a curse that if I talked to someone it would take away one of their powers. Unfortunately Becky asked me a question in my dream. I replied without thinking and it stripped her power to do triathlons.

Obsess much?? This is going to be a bitch of a week…

You can’t fall off a marathon, and you can’t sink in a 50K, and all you need is some shorts, a shirt and some shoes.

The truth is: I’m cranky and pissed and obsessed about the cats because I’m scared of this one and it’s not an excited nervousness. It’s just fear.

It’s Saturday morning and Flippin’ GORGEOUS outside. Like, if Norman Rockwell lived here at my house (you know, if he were still alive and all. Not now, now that he’s dead. That would be kinda freaky) he would be outside all Zen, painting pictures of trees and the lake and ducks and stuff and communing with nature and getting rich and famous for all his awesome paintings on the cover of the Saturday Evening Post every Saturday evening. Which probably neither of the followers of my world famous blog know who he is anyway since that was about 40 years ago when both of them were two.

Anyway – it’s beautiful out and it’s my off day. No running today, have 18 to do tomorrow and since Butt Falling Off Syndrome reared its ugly head I have not yet made it to 18. So I’m laying low today. No hard work, no

Ok, I’m back, sorry, Cat just knocked 32 pounds of stuff off the dresser and I thought the world had exploded. Now she’s hiding in the dresser drawer thinking I cannot see her 10 pound a$$ sticking out if her head is hidden and she’s not looking at me. Dog, meanwhile, has the sense to be sleeping upstairs on the bed where he thinks he’s safe.

Why did Grace Kelly have the opportunity to knock 32 pounds of junk off the dresser and then crawl into the empty drawer?

Because 1) it’s my off day so I’m laying low and taking it easy inside the house and 2) it’s the day most dreaded in my household: Tax. Day.

Every year at 12:01am January 1st the hubs starts talking about getting the taxes ready and my head begins to throb. Of course by then I’ve had like 10 glasses of wine but that’s not the reason.

I hate tax day for several reasons:

For six weeks I’ve been collecting every slip of paper larger than a toothpick which has come in the mail and looks remotely like something that might have anything to do with taxes, interest paid, receipts, etc. Every week hubs asks if I’m keeping track of the tax stuff. Every week I point to the Kelly green file prominently displayed on the desk and say “Yes – it’s all right here IN THIS BRIGHT KELLY GREEN FILE PROMINENTLY DISPLAYED ON THE DESK.” Next week, repeat. The voices are screaming in my head KELLY GREEN. DESK. RIGHT THERE. but if I open my mouth words like this will come out: @!$$ so &^%**() for the %**$%^ $#**&- and ^%&&& your &^%$$$ so I pretend I have to go to the bathroom. Since Hubs just decided he needs to go get a Diet Coke he is probably thinking the same thing about the taxes.

Second, all the other stuff that I was supposed to be accumulating through the year like medical payments and stuff, well…*sigh* they’re all right there in the dresser. In a pile. That looks like the storm from Wizard of Oz went through. They aren’t actually IN the Kelly Green folder. Yet. So maybe they might need to be sorted and organized at which point I will absolutely find one bank statement is missing and it will be the one that is more than 6 months ago because that’s how far back I can go online for statements.

Third, for the past six weeks hubs has also been shooting me emails asking me to look up this. and look up that. and look up the other. and send it to him. Which I do. And last night: he asked me to look it all up again. Now I could do that. It would take me 15-20 minutes maybe to recompile the info. However, my thought is that the %$$# info is already in his email inbox and a 30 second email search would reveal it.

Oddly I’m starting to flashback to the days before my last marathon. That’s weird. And why am I holding three running shoes and some Glide on my day off? Huh.

Anyway, Tax Day. I’m captive by my off day, can’t get a run to blow off the steam but I can damn sure turn it into a mantra tomorrow when that 18 gets a bit tough.

Breathe in … Tax … Breathe out … Day … Breathe in … Tax … Breath out … Day

And why, you ask, am I blogging instead of taxing? Meh. Look who crawled out of the drawer and is now sleeping on my papers:

How cute is that? And look! I found Grandma Alice’s red velvet pincushion and some baby pics I’d lost.

As National Spokesperson and Poster Child for the BFOS (sponsored by the Asses of the World Club and the National BFOS Ass.) I am privy to quite a bit of breaking news, research and studies. Just this morning I was included in the initial release of soon-to-be-published research on Marathonirritationitis. The study itself was fascinating but probably difficult reading if you are not a specialist or a National Spokesperson and Poster Child. I’m just saying. Because I wouldn’t want either of you to try to read it and then feel all frustrated because you couldn’t understand most of the words and then you might feel bad about yourselves. So I’m just trying to save you from that. I’ve got your back.

I thought the most interesting part of the study (and this part is also easily understood even by people who are not experts or Poster Childs or National Spokespersons) was when researchers were able to actually observe a victim of Marathonirritationitis in its natural habitat! In order to do a proper study the photographers integrated themselves into the victim’s natural habitat slowly and were able to capture this photo (below) I know this might be disturbing to both of you, the violence and the potential harm for the innocent bystanders, but when shooting in any natural habitat the photographers are trained not to intervene, even at the expense of injury to those involved. One photographer was heard to murmur afterward “I’m sure glad that shoe missed my head. I need a beer.”

You may find yourself judging these sufferers and perhaps blaming them for bringing it upon themselves. However, studies have still not determined if the marathoner is actually responsible for their own actions. There is some thought that the underlying cause (the desire to run a marathon) of Marathonirrirationitis is a genetic pre-disposition to running. I know. Crazy talk. But let us not judge until science has had it’s chance.

Until more is known – and unless they want a divorce or a family reading of their will – loved ones need to remember not to escalate the situation by asking questions like, “Why the H3LL are you doing the damn race, then??” Just remain in the Safe Position. If you need to move from the Safe Position – for instance, perhaps you need to go to the bathroom – rise slowly, arms extended to the victim, offering a cold beer. Avoid eye contact.

Please remember, when seeing the intensity of this photo, that the victim is just that – a victim – they are not at that moment in full control. They will evidence deep and sincere remorse within the next 48 hours. In fact, shortly after the filming of this victim, she fell into her spouse’s arms, sobbing. Researchers think they heard her saying, “Next time I’ll….”

A few years ago, facing the last taper week before her first marathon, one of my BRFF’s and co-hort at The Bad Table at board meetings, DJ aka Deej aka Deejer, asked me, “How does anyone stay married when they have to live with a marathoner? I am such a bi&&** this week – and my team mates are too! I’m going to kill my husband, I’m going to kill my child, I’m going to kill the dog. I’m going to eat the legs off the table and follow that up with 2 gallons of Ben & Jerry’s Chunky Monkey with hot fudge sauce!! I’m going to wear my Nike shorts with my Brooks s/s. No, I’m going to wear compression tights with a Nike singlet….OH MY GAWD I’M GOING CRAZY!!!”

This poor runner is suffering from a little known disease, MARATHONIRRITATIONITIS (mar–uh-thon-ir-i-tey-shuhn-eye-tis), a serious but seldom fatal (except to family members) and short-lived illness which is, surprisingly, found only in one particular group of people. Not limited to age, race or religion, curiously, all sufferers have one thing in common: every one of them run marathons.

Signs and Symptoms

Marthonirritationitis symptoms include but are not limited to: irritation, irritability, grumpiness, lack of focus, inability to pay attention, and loss of concentration. In addition to being slightly out of sorts symptoms include wandering aimlessly through the house hugging a gallon of Ben & Jerry’s, carrying one running shoe and 12 pair of socks, trying to find the suitcase which is in the middle of the floor. People have been known to pack three jog bras and no shorts while slathering Glide on their underarms and Right Guard everywhere else.

Marthonirritationitis is most often followed by a period of extreme euphoria. These symptoms include but are not limited to: obtaining a shiny medal object at the end of the trigger (marathon) and hanging it in conspicuous places such as their rear view mirror or on the refrigerator over the top of their child’s A++ test. Other victims have been seen wearing the shiny object out in public, where they frequently imbibe in high caloric meals which include large amounts of alcohol while laughing loudly at anything that is not remotely funny to any other human, occasionally lapsing into a blank stare while silently mouthing the words I did it I did it.

Following this brief period of euphoria is a longer period of deep and sincere remorse, whereupon the sufferer is forced to ask the previously offended and offensive family members for, first, their forgiveness and second, help standing up from the couch, kitchen chair and/or toilet. Victims are often seen creeping sideways down the stairs, clutching the stair rail as though it held the meaning of life and sobbing while stepping out of the car or off a curb. Other victims are seen shuffling sadly into convenience stores purchasing quantities of bagged ice in a useless attempt to stave off pain by immersing themselves in the dreaded Ice Bath, originally invented for stubborn victims of the Inquisition.

Diagnosis

Physical examination, x-rays and blood testing are most often useless. Diagnosis usually follows a family member exclaiming, “For crying out loud! What is WRONG with you?!” The innocent, well-intentioned and unsuspecting family member then learns the meaning of ‘Near Death Experience” as the hurled object embeds itself in the wall beside the family member’s head.

Treatment

Sadly there is, at this time, no known cure, nor is there any medication known to be of more than superficial benefit. Beer, Ibuprofen, beer, hot baths, wine and beer seem to remedy most of the symptoms which follow the euphoria.